Whispered Chants of Solitude
by Scream in Silence
Summary: The whispered chants floated around you, embracing you in darkness, as the silence shattered your cracked mold into pieces, the sharp, scarred fragments breaking your weak grip of control and the glittering blade driving deep into your lonely heart.


**Hey guys. This is my first ever story so hopefully I'll improve over time. This story doesn't have a set character or a definitive plot, but it was something that I just needed to get out of my head. I did have a character in mind while writing it, but it's open to interpretation on your part. Hope you like it.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own it.**

The empty, darkened rooms seem to echo a soft, whispered chant, the same chant that has been floating through your brain for months, its quiet torment displaying a brutal honesty you'd rather

not hear, and the well-known refrain only serves to bring the glaringly obvious realization that you are alone. It's not like you hadn't been aware of the fact, yeah because every room you enter is just

full of non-existent people and everything. After all, you would know considering you've been in the majority of them, hoping that the ever-present chant would fade into oblivion. Yet it seems you're

stuck with it for an unforeseen amount of time; it has made itself comfortable in its new residence, the back of your mind. Aimlessly traversing through all of the rooms in this hell-hole has done nothing

to ease that horrible, ferocious noise, and you're beginning to get sick of seeing the same ugly décor pasted on the walls and arranged like a delusional, fairytale dollhouse.

With a sigh you settle yourself on the living room sofa, the pristine white fabric reminding you of how utterly important and put together your family must seem, even if you know that's not the case

(considering when the house is actually occupied by someone other than yourself, all you can hear is the raised voices and heated arguments that tear through the walls as if they were made of

paper). As you squash down the urge to pour something on the clean, white surface so that it will be stained like your fragmented soul, you consider your recent thoughts. The past months have been

lonely and that nagging voice in the back of your mind, forcing you to take notice of your imperfections and insecurities, had done nothing to ease the ache of abandonment. At first you had not wanted

to accept the honesty being thrown at you because, well the truth does hurt, but eventually your resistance caved and you were forced to really examine yourself. It's been so long since you had

actually acted like yourself and weren't trying to please someone that you've forgotten who you are, or at least had been. You can no longer remember what you stood for or what you believe in now.

You're simply a puppet, unable to think, only able to watch the huge, ornate hands pull each coarse, heavy string and coax your wooden, pliable body into whatever twisted, fabricated command they

so desire. You try with all your might to blame them but that irritatingly persistent whisper refuses to let you. Deep down, you know that you can only blame yourself, after all, you, and only you,

brought this upon yourself. They may have filled your head with ideas but you were eager from the start to shove yourself into a mold that didn't fit, like fat people who try to squeeze into a pair of

jeans two sizes too small.

Suddenly, unable to sit on this perfect, classy sofa (a reminder of everything you're not and never will be), you get up and quickly walk out of the room. As you wander around the empty house that

feels more like a prison than home, you wonder why you were so enamored with that lifestyle anyway, especially considering it felt more like a wrestling match, keeping you captive and fighting to stay

on top, than a welcoming way of living. You were hoping that, if you embraced the chanted truth, the refrain would go away, but it had only increased in strength, as if urging you to change, reinvent

yourself to show who you truly are. But the problem is that you know longer know who you are.

You withdrew from everybody over the past few months in the hopes of discovering yourself and ending the noise blaring in your mind but, just as you expected, nobody noticed your self-induced

absence. You were truly sick of being alone. The empty rooms that seemed miles wide, the still air that lacked any comforting odor, the cleanliness that made it seem as if the place was a museum

rather than a house, the silence. Oh, the silence. It filled every gap, every single crevice of the spot-free, white-washed walls and perfectly uniformed décor. It just about screamed out you, random,

incoherent phrases that burned in sharp, blanketed flashes across your mind. The silence was impossible to escape.

Once again the bland atmosphere and dull, original sights of the house threatened to overload the weak grip that you had over yourself, so you went to your room, hoping to collect some semblance of

yourself, whoever that was. As you walk across the room you briefly gaze out the window, staring transfixed at the way the late afternoon sun covered everything with a slight, dull glow, before you

stand in front the full length mirror and scrutinize yourself. Looking into the cool, swirls of glass you, for the first time, actually see yourself. The usual, perfect reflection is marred with flaws, ugly

disfiguring scars, you think, that stand out in stark relief against the still blackness of the room, but you realize that it's merely a projection of your inner self. Suddenly, your jumbled, confused thoughts

go into overdrive and you struggle to wrap your head around a single coherent thought. The screaming of the silence increases, forming a perfect crescendo – the beat of it perfectly matching the

chanting of the voice. Imperfections are being shouted at you from all directions until you can't see or hear, paralyzed, trapped in this loud, dark cavern that has all the warmth of the Artic. You dimly

hear a muffled crack, but all you can focus on is how you hate what you saw, and the imperfections are yelling their mantra in perfect syncopation as the silence pierces through your maddening haze

in an even louder tone. Blackness begins to infringe on the edges of your blanketed vision, and as everything begins to fade, you realize that the disjointed screaming wasn't from the silence, but from

you.


End file.
